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Matt Lupton-Levy Poem
The seagull
In the winter light she limps through
Frozen snow on the frozen ground
In the deepest night the starlight
Guides her back to the colder town
Baby, baby bunting
Mummy’s gone a ****ing
Gone to fetch a wheelie bin
To bin her baby bunting in.
I don’t want my wife to find me talking to you as if I care
Can I take you somewhere warmer?
I know somewhere I’ll take you there
How the clouds hold the snow.
Up above our heads a seagull
Flies across the storm.
Snowflakes slit his skin like razors
Next to me that bastard’s warmer.
Out on the moor where the sheep are buried
By the barn door lay the babe I carried
And the icicles are forming
And the bicycles are frozen
Down the street there goes the chosen
Up his bum there goes the bosun
And the misery and torment
Are the only things for what you’re meant
Can you pay me back what I lent
I don’t wanna get my head bent.
The trawler trails the gulls
into the harbours arms again
The seamen spill into the alleys
Waiting for the great adventure.
Copyright © Matt Lupton-Levy | Year Posted 2012
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Matt Lupton-Levy Poem
Crimsworth Dene
Light relieved land stamped down and raised mounds and hidden folds, revealed the valley’s follies, farms and sunken rivers.
The bright afternoon eye-level sun painted radiance on the dead leaves’ shimmer, rainbowed the waterfall’s joyful spray, and drew eyemotes floating into dancing stars against the sheeted blue.
Outward away past the framed horizon, the sillhouetted church, the tiny Pike, crepuscular shafts healed the broken air and the shining clouds glowed.
The ancient ruin of a farmhouse still holds the ghosts of lovers that once longed across the valley’s gape, forbidden to cross. They rest somewhere near, whilst their dreams still fall towards the river where today, the clough throws its soul-drops over Lumb Falls. Follow the water, and the stream for an instant, becomes brief despariing citizens of the beck hurling themselves, flying and dying to join the river-republic of the hereafter and tumble on ecstatic to the sea.
The central beam, the backbone of the farm, cracked and snapped one day and still rests piercing the floor, now boggy grass. Where the foxgloves towerin early summer, the moss has taken over the lease and the sheep shelter in what is left of the larder and the parlour. Somewhere under the boulders, the bedroom continues to rot , and where their passion lived, the sun now lures weeds towards itself, rising and falling through the centuries.
Copyright © Matt Lupton-Levy | Year Posted 2012
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Matt Lupton-Levy Poem
Beyond the face
This cloud is dreaming of raining.
So clear the sun jewels on droplets.
Endlessly falling and siring, desire and release tumble onwards.
Night and day fighting, the lightning is writing it all down.
Being a singular person and being circumstances
Circular wheels are spinning and dreaming of squares.
Solidly fluid the movement is watching the dancer.
Flirting ‘tween over concern and deserting, who cares.
One drop of water living in the ocean.
No two existances being the same
Only one grain of sand just like this one
Only one person ever came.
And no separation in empty space.
I look into eye beyond the face.
Copyright © Matt Lupton-Levy | Year Posted 2012
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